The Us Weekly offices are decorated, just as you would hope/expect, with giant photos of celebrities looking ridiculous.

One of these photos is of Jessica Simpson, astride a moped, with a look of horror on her face as the thing zooms out of control beneath her. Her blond locks are flapping in the breeze; her premium denim-ed legs are flying in the air.

For lack of any other point of reference, that’s exactly how I imagine my first experience driving a moped. Not that driving a moped seems particularly hard–it’s just that I’ve never done it. So it was with visions of J. Simp in my mind that I approached the rentadora de motos this morning on Isla Mujeres. I had exactly two hours to cruise the island, and that required more speed than I could manage on a bicycle.

When the guy asked if I’d driven a moped before, I of course said yes…but it was, ah, four years ago. He must hear that crap all the time. Anyway, he gave me the briefing (“Oh, no gears! That’s much easier than the last one I drove!” I dug myself in deeper), and then I hopped on and went scooting off. “Slooooowly!” he shouted behind me.

Well, everything actually went fine until I was around the far side of the island and paused to take some pictures of an interesting house. When I got back on the moped, it wouldn’t start. Freakin’ great. I tried various buttons–the horn, repeatedly; the left blinker–and then finally I remembered I had to hold down the brake while tweaking the starter.

This all must’ve addled me, because then, as I was making a U-turn in the road, I completely lost it when I realized the first car I’d seen in 20 minutes was coming along toward me (at about 10 miles per hour). I did the full J. Simp gasp-and-panic, and drove my moped down the crumbling asphalt and into the sea grapes. The woman in the car helpfully leaned out and said, “You should really be very, very careful when driving that.”

I muttered something about how I’d been just fine for an hour and a half, before she came along, apologized a million times, and drove off…slooooowly.

Fortunately I’ll never see her again.

Other things that happened today: a cabbie named Rafael simultaneously stroked my cheek and asked with unapologetic curiosity, “What happened to your ear?!” I can only imagine what would’ve happened if he’d been reaching for my breast and ran into my sternum scar. I only know how to explain my ear in Spanish (“una infeccion; mi madre me dijo “Cuidado!”, pero…”), but not my heart surgery. But the guy might’ve driven off the road before it came to that. (I know, I know–never sit in the front seat. But whatever–my suitcase was taking up the back seat. And he was nice, for a lech.)

Later, on the public bus to Cancun’s hotel zone: a guy sang powerful songs, accompanied by guitar. One was heart-wrenchingly sad. Another was a rockabilly tune about how he left his girl at ‘el ADO’–the long-distance bus terminal. I felt clever knowing that, because half an hour before, I hadn’t been able to remember this normal word for bus terminal and had been asking drivers about the ‘terminal de autobuses,’ which is a tedious mouthful.

Then, on the same bus: a clown got on. An advertising clown, I think. He had red and yellow hair, a white and pink face, baggy pants, striped socks, and a green balloon-animal microphone. He ranted and raved for several stops. I couldn’t tell what he was talking about, but I’m assuming it was advertising something. The alternative–that he was completely insane–is a little depressing to contemplate. (Also depressing to contemplate: his fate, should he try that shit on the NYC subway. Mexican singers: love ya; Mexican clowns: dead meat.)

Then I arrived at the Club Med. Here is proof that you don’t necessarily get fabulous treatment when you’re staying somewhere on assignment. No one told me that “the village” operates on its own time zone–an hour later than the rest of Cancun, I guess still on Daylight Saving Time–and so I sat in the green-lit bar, reading, for more than an hour while I waited for my reserved dinner time. Then I marched in, promptly at 8:30, only to be told that the kitchen was closed.

As you can imagine, I nearly cried. I wound up with some fried snapper and a chocolate dessert. No greens. No happy-tizers. Ker-sniff. While I was eating, I remembered how I’d smugly reset the clock in my room–“Luxury, my ass,” I was thinking. “That’s some crappy attention to detail right there.”

Then I came back to my room, and my key no longer worked. Double ker-sniff. I hoofed it to reception for help. Maintenance would be along shortly. Forty minutes later, I began typing away here, while the dudes replaced the battery in my door lock.

So, now it’s 11:30pm “village time,” and I guess I’ll take a bath in my ridiculously huge tub. After all that, my room is quite splendid, and I’m looking forward to enjoying the sea view tomorrow morning. I just wish the morning weren’t coming so soon…